Tintin and Alph-Art: Part 1: The 'H' and The 'E'
by Speculatrix
Summary: While investigating the mysterious death of an art expert who wanted to meet him, Tintin and his friends are drawn into the controversial worlds of modern art and New Age spirituality. However, in the process, he's also thrown in the path of an old quest for vengeance. May include OCs and a few story elements borrowed from Rodier (Disclaimer: NOT MINE!) Will take time to finish.
1. Prologue

**Tintin & Alph-Art: Part 1  
**

**THE 'H' AND THE 'E'**

**Disclaimer: **Tintin and all characters and stories, even the ones that remain in sketch form, belong to Herge and no one else.

**Summary: **While investigating the mysterious death of an art expert who wanted to meet him, Tintin and his friends are drawn into the controversial worlds of modern art and New Age spirituality. However, in the process, he's also thrown in the path of an old quest for vengeance. May include OCs and a few story elements borrowed from Rodier (Disclaimer for that: ALSO NOT MINE!).

**Prologue**

The young woman paid rapt attention to the bearded man standing in front of her, as he mumbled sentences in an alien language. She decided that it may be special for having been granted a one-on-one audience with him, however unexpected it may have been. But she couldn't help wondering if..._Oh, never mind_, she thought.

One outstretched palm, complete with trembling fingertips, was faced in the direction of his other palm, where a curious pendant, connected to a loop of black string, rested. It was coloured yellow-gold and shaped into what the man said was a reminder of his name, where his first initial mirrors itself.

She had nodded in understanding, watching interestedly as he whispered to it in what seemed like Greek to her and other people, but she personally knew that it was only Old Hollandic mixed with a little Latin.

Martine Lenore Vandezande smiled weakly when he finally finished, then bent slightly so he could put the talisman over her head. The colour of the pendant complemented her bespectacled green eyes and light auburn hair. She paid and thanked him politely, to which he said, "Go forth, dear sister, may your future be bright, always."

She did go forth, her eyes brimming with tears as her gloved fingertips touched the pendant ever so slightly. There was a smile on her face, but it was a thin one. She half-walked, half-ran home, her handbag clutched tightly to her chest, her tears threatening to spill out. She bit her red-lipsticked lower lip slightly to prevent this. No, she won't cry, not now. It's been so long...

She finally found herself at home. The landlady, Mrs Lark, had left the door unlocked, so, once inside, she locked it with the key hanging nearby, then tiptoed upstairs and entered her apartment, locking herself inside. Martine sighed and took off her glasses to wipe the few tears that had rolled silently down her cheeks.

Martine went into her little kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She sat at the table, took off her new bling and inspected it cautiously. Suddenly, after a few moments, she abruptly dunked it into the glass, threw her spectacles on the table and dashed into the bathroom to throw up into the loo. Afterwards, she washed her face and congratulated herself on not having a breakdown.

As she looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink, Martine finally understood that her luck had changed.


	2. Chapter 1

**Tintin & Alph-Art: Part 1  
**

**THE 'H' AND THE 'E'**

**Chapter 1**

_Rat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. _This was the sound of a woodpecker tapping for breakfast on a tree close to a certain old seadog's room in a certain stately mansion. Inside the room though, something else was up.

Someone knocked on the bedroom door, "Your breakfast, Captain."

"Mmmmm," answered a sleepy voice. "Zzzz...Door's 'nlocked, Nestor, zzzz..."

"This isn't Nestor, Captain Jackinabox," another voice answered back in a loud, pompous tone that the sleepy occupant, now with his eyes wide open in shock, knew and dreaded only too well. "I have come to give you your medicine!"

Captain Archibald Haddock sat up, scared. Blue blistering barnacles, it's Signora Castoroili! _How did she end up in my house?_ He thought. And wait, that's not breakfast. It's a bottle of alcohol. Actually, even worse than that, it's Loch Lomond!

"B-but, Signora...!" stuttered Haddock. Bianca looked at him menacingly. "T-th-that's Loch Lomond! You k-k-know that I can't *ugh!* stand that b-b-bilgewater anymore!" With every word, his fear of her intensified.

"Oh, so you don't want it, eh?!" Castafiore shrieked and, to the Captain's horror, she transformed into a large woodpecker with a long beak, similar to the one seen outside his bedroom window. She flapped her wings ominously, advancing towards the Captain with ill-will.

"THEN YOU WILL NOT HAVE ANY DESSERT TODAY!"

And she started pecking at his face viciously.

"YAAAAAAAAAH! HELP! SAVE ME! _AU SECOURS_! _A MOI_!"

The shouts made the woodpecker on the tree squawk and fly away in fright.

_Three_ doors away from him, one young man and dog had acted fast on hearing the commotion. Flying out of bed and hastily slipping on his bedroom slippers, one of which flew directly onto the face of his faithful terrier Snowy (Or Milou to some), Tintin the reporter had thrown his door open and ran to Captain Haddock's room. He rushed in, to find the veteran sailor on the verge of falling off his bed, his eyes screwed shut while defending himself against thin air.

"_NON_! _NON_! _NON_! PLEASE!"

"_Capitaine_!" Tintin shouted out over the din, trying to shake his friend awake. "Captain, wake up! Cap-OOMPH!"

While thrashing about, Haddock's hand had roughly shoved Tintin onto a dressing table. "Tintin! Are you hurt?!" Snowy barked frantically at his master/friend, feeling rather helpless.

Tintin got up to his feet, massaging his cheek, just as Haddock finally came to his senses and sat up in bed for real.

"Oh..._quelle horreur_! At least I'm still alive," he said to himself. He noticed Tintin getting back on his feet and added, "Oh, g'morning Tintin. Could you believe it? It was this horrible nightmare...Just imagine..."

BBBRRRRING! It was the telephone on Haddock's bedside table. Tintin picked it up. "_Allo_? _Oui_!..._Euh, non madame_, this not Cutts the Butcher! Yes, it's a common mistake..._De rien, madame_, have a good day!"

The Captain resumed, "As I was saying, it was a horrible nightmare. There was Nestor bringing my breakfast. But it wasn't Nestor and it wasn't my breakfast either."

"_Vraiment_?" Tintin raised one eyebrow.

"Then suddenly..."

The phone rang again and it was up to Tintin to pick it up again.

"_Encore_? Oh well," Tintin picked it up, "_Allo? Mais oui, euh...c-c-comment_? What?" He shifted the receiver from his left ear to the right in surprise. "Who? Oh, hello Signora Castafiore!"

No! It can't be true!" Haddock exclaimed and turned pale with fright. As the Signora's dreaded voice made itself clear down the phone, he slipped out of bed and grabbed his clothes.

"_Si, caro mio_, I've just arrived from Los Angeles. Yes...I'll be in your country for two days. I'm planning to come and embrace you soon! You and my brave Hassock. How is the dear man? Is he available?"

Tintin tried not to grimace, "Very well, Signora, I...Oh!" He had noticed a pyjama-clad Haddock hurrying out of his room with clothes in tow. "Uh, he's just gone out! He will be so upset to have missed you...!"

"Oh!" The Milanese Nightingale's disappointment was evident in her voice, "Then I'll visit tomorrow. But...Oh no! It's impossible! I have a date with Endaddine!"

Tintin was puzzled, "Endaddine?"

"Don't tell me you don't know Endaddine?" She gushed. "The great, the one and only Endaddine Akass! He's a fascinating man, darling, absolutely fascinating! You simply must meet him. He's a most ma-a-arvelous mystic...He lays his hands on your head and you will be magnetized for a year. In fact, I'll be spending a few days with him in Ischia! Isn't that wonderful! I really do recommend him...He's so _meraviglioso! _But I must leave you now, I'm going window shopping. Lots of kisses to my dear Paddock. _Ciao_!"

"Till then, Signora, _au revoir_!" Tintin put the phone down, relieved and went up to the doorway to call his best friend.

"_Capitaine! Eh...Capitaine_?!" Tintin looked around. A harried-looking Nestor had just come upstairs and he answered, "The Captain? Oh, he has gone out, sir. He was in such a hurry that he forgot to drink his coffee. He said he wouldn't be back until this evening."

"I see," was all Tintin could reply.

"Say, Tintin, don't you think it's time we had breakfast?" Snowy barked, wagging his tail hopefully.

"You go on ahead, _mon brave Milou_," Tintin answered, scratching his ears. "I must get dressed."

Snowy barked cheerfully and rushed off downstairs to Nestor and the kitchen. Tintin, meanwhile, headed off to the room he shared with Snowy and took a bath. Afterwards, he dressed in his customary blue sweater over a clean white shirt and a pair of brown jeans that he'd favoured quite recently. They certainly made him look taller, though to be honest, his body_ ha__d_ grown by a few inches even before _that_ Jolly Follies-themed revolution in Tapiocapolis. Or was it Alcazaropolis? Who cares? San Theodoros is made out of presidential revolutions.

He couldn't help but notice a recycled shopping bag at the bottom of his wardrobe that was stuffed with something. Curious, he took it out and shook out its contents onto his bed. Out fell a brown pair of wrinkled plus-fours. Tintin picked them up and smiled in recognition.

It was his favourite pair of brown plus-fours. He'd had more pairs like them, but he'd given them all away in charity. All, but this one, because he knew that, although it looked similar to the others, this was the one he wore most of the time back then. But he'd grown out of them and now if he wore them, they'd still fit, but only reach his knees and look like a pair of shorts. He'd grown that tall.

In fact, Tintin could say that his mind had grown up just as slightly. He remembered how tired he felt after deposing Tapioca quite recently. It was a first in his life. When Haddock said yet again how much he was looking forward to relaxing at home, Tintin had actually _agreed_. And it even felt great to say it. It was as if, for once, that old spark that set his heart on fire and his eyes a-gleam was on the point of being extinguished.

Tintin, the adventurous reporter, who ran around the world, excitedly chasing drug smugglers and gun runners, exploring exotic locations, escaping death by the skin of his teeth, now reduced to helping friends in high places get back on their high horses. That's how he saw it. No wonder he had felt so happy to get back home afterwards.

Or maybe the adrenaline rush that came with dodging criminal bullets and knives and being on the run had suddenly lost its meaning and become overrated. There were so many times where Tintin had privately been thankful he'd lived to see another day, so much that he'd actually felt scared for his friends' feelings and wondered what'd happen to them, especially Snowy-Heaven forbid-if he had died. But he'd do it again in a heartbeat and still emerge victorious. He enjoyed it back then. Why feel like this now?

"_Mais ce n'est pas très mal_," He thought aloud, "I still have years ahead of me, stories waiting to be told. Or do I?"

He was sitting on his bed now, holding his former favourite trousers to his chest, nostalgia blowing upon him like the breeze. He sighed. Certain events that had recently befallen him now weighed upon him.

"Did I really do all this just to...escape? From them? What if I did? What if I didn't?"

Then another, more absurd thought presented itself. He had walked or rode on his new scooter with Milou many times into the village and seen people. Not just any people. People his age and above. They were almost always in pairs, sometimes with children. They were always smiling. Their eyes gleamed and they looked as though their hearts were aglow. He knew that look, because he'd worn it many times, whenever he found himself ready to do something mad and risky.

"Would it be an adventure if I did what many people did, to settle down and happily grow old? _Vraiment_? I wonder..."

He shook his head and made up his mind. He was in a good place right now, with a loving pet and a strong inner circle of friends who were his family away from family. And Marlinspike Hall was definitely a home away from home. Though Mrs Finch also let him stay at Labrador Road whenever he wanted too. His real family, though...Tintin shook that out of his head. If they were _that _better off without him than they say they were, then who was he to interfere?

He forlornly threw the plus-fours back into the shopping bag, which he flung into his wardrobe. He looked at himself in the mirror. His sideburns were almost of a Victorian length. His reddish-blond hair was slightly darker. And he was definitely quite tall, compared to back then, when he was a pint-sized chip off the block. The jeans defined his legs better than the plus-fours. But that didn't mean he could get rid of his old pants. He regarded his still-youthful face and smiled. He'd be closer to twenty any day.

Feeling much better about himself, Tintin shook off all traces of nostalgia and doubt and went downstairs, a better, slightly unchanged reporter.


	3. Chapter 2

**Tintin & Alph-Art: Part 1  
**

**THE 'H' AND THE 'E'**

**Chapter 2  
**

_Meanwhile, in the Fourcart Gallery_...

The customers were all gazing pensively at the paintings or walking around the sculptures and, in some cases, taking notes. Neither of them seemed to notice the sole assistant in the relatively medium-sized gallery hovering nervously around two pieces of art close to a door that read "Staff Only."

"_Non, non et non! _I told you, it's out of the question!"

Martine pretended to examine a large purple 'G' that was leaning close to an equally large blue 'R' on the same sculpture pedestal. She was close to this particular set of sculptures, because they were conveniently placed near the door of her employer's office, which enabled her to eavesdrop on a very interesting conversation.

Right now, _Monsieur_ Henri Fourcart, owner of the gallery, was on the point of losing his temper. Ramo Nash, the _nouveau-riche_ artist, had brought up his benefactor's ill-willed proposition in yet another private discussion. Martine knew exactly what the boss had to say to that.

"I will _never _agree! This is preposterous! Utterly criminal!" Fourcart was shouting. "If I had known what I was getting into...Art is a symbol of the treasures that the world has to offer, not a symbol of greed and domination!"

"I agree with you on that, _Monsieur, vraiment, monsieur,_" she could hear the other man's nervous Jamaican accent. She rolled her eyes. Nash, though clearly an aspiring artist, was almost always insecure, especially when it came to his very wealthy, albeit anonymous, benefactor. She could almost hear him wringing his hands.

"But please listen, _monsieur_..."

"Don't 'listen _monsieur_' me! Tell him that if he thinks he can steal my gallery from me, just because I won't..."

Sell the gallery! Martine's jaw dropped. No wonder her employer was furious.

"...I will sell this story to the news! And not just any old gossip rag, I will give it to..."

As Fourcart ranted on, she suddenly remembered that she was wearing her new pendant, which also had a purpose of its own and gripped it in frustration. "Curse this thing!" she thought. It was then that the gallery doors were thrown open and a bearded man fled in.

Glad to be distracted, Martine let go of her pendant and strode forward soundlessly to meet him.

Captain Haddock sighed with relief. He had been out walking the bustling streets of Brussels ever since he took off from the Hall that morning. "Yes, there's nothing I would do to escape her!" He'd said to himself happily. "Lost in the crowd, here in town, ha ha! She'll never find me here!"

How wrong he was.

SHE had appeared out of nowhere, accompanied by her trusty pianist, Igor Wagner and a miniature poodle in her arms. Bianca Castafiore's path was well and truly on collision course with Haddock's.

"Catastrophe! Cataclysm! Oh, calamity, what'll I do?!"

Without looking at the signs, he had dived into the establishment on his right, which happened to be the Fourcart Gallery. Once inside, he'd breathed a sigh of relief.

"Saved!"

"_Bonjour, monsieur_. Can I help you?"

"Huh?"

Captain Haddock turned and saw a young woman, who he presumed to be some sort of assistant. She was certainly close to Tintin's age and height. She wore a light pink pencil fit dress with front bodice buttons and a wide over-shoulder collar. The colour complemented her light auburn hair, which was held up in a loose French twist by a comb decorated with white roses. The ballet flats she wore were ivory-coloured and she wore no jewellery, save for an oddly-shaped gold pendant on a black velvet cord. She also wore rather large, square glasses that flattered her pale, heart-shaped face.

"Do you need any help sir?" The young woman repeated herself with a polite, slightly hopeful smile.

"Um...No! Not really!" Haddock stuttered, trying to make some excuse based on his current surroundings,"I was just passing by, thought I would take a look around, you see..."

"_Bien sur, monsieur,_" replied the assistant. "I'll be on hand if you need anything." With that she walked off to chat to an old, snobbish-looking couple.

Haddock found himself face-to-face at a big "I" which was made of tiny square-shaped mirror-pieces. He wasn't going to stare at it too long though, because the entrance opened behind him and what was reflected in the "I" sculpture was enough to make him jump.

Signora Castafiore, who Haddock had just avoided, had been window-shopping since she arrived in Brussels, when something caught her eye. She cried out joyfully on seeing the poster adorning the Fourcart Gallery.

"Oh my! Ramo Nash's first ever exhibition in Brussels! I'm so glad I arrived when I did! Dearest Ramo, I'm wild about him...Haven't seen him since my recital in Montparnasse. Perhaps he'll be here, let's go in!"

And in she (And Wagner) went. Poor Captain Haddock, now on the tether end of a panic attack, rushed across the gallery, almost mowing down a gathering of primary school students on a field trip. He bolted in through the first door he saw. A door which happened to have the sign "Staff Only" on it.

He ran in and slammed the door behind him. He had evidently interrupted an important discussion, because the two men in this room looked up with a start, one of them getting up from his chair. Haddock gasped, realizing he'd truly done it this time.

The one who was standing looked distinguished and middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a light brown business suit. The other, who was still seated, was shorter, with long black hair and matching beard. He wore a thick yellow pullover, a long orange checkered scarf and green pants. His skin colour suggested that he was of African descent.

"I...Excuse me...I'm sorry to disturb you..." Haddock fumbled, embarrassed, "If it's no trouble...Only wanted to tell you how fascinating the exhibition is..."

"You are interested in Alph-Art, sir?" asked the little bearded man, getting up from his seat with a weak, but sincere smile.

"Passionately..." Haddock replied hesitantly, not knowing what the man was talking about, "Absolutely wild about it, that's for sure...Nothing better, hehe."

The little man swept forwards and shook the Captain's hand with both of his. "I'm Ramo Nash, sir. This exhibition is of my own works. I thank you and congratulate you. And this is Mr Fourcart, the director of the gallery."

Fourcart, the man in the suit, looked somewhat relieved at the intrusion. He too came forward and shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr...Mr...?"

"Haddock. Archibald Haddock."

Fourcart's eyes widened. "H-Haddock?! You don't happen to be...You are friends with Tintin the reporter, aren't you?"

"_C'est moi, oui_."

"Hmmmm! What a stroke of luck!" Fourcart looked genuinely delighted. "Well, it so happens I have some interesting news for him. Could I be able to obtain a phone number to call him with?"

"Of course, it's Marlinspike 421."

None of the three men noticed Martine walking purposefully past the doorway with a pensive smile on her face.

"_Bon, merci_," Fourcart whipped out a notebook and pen and jotted down the number. "Tell Mr Tintin I will telephone him in a day or two. I'll leave you now in Ramo Nash's capable hands to go round the exhibition. I have some work to do."

"This way, sir," Nash said and lead the Captain out of the office, while Fourcart sat back down at his desk. 'This isn't so bad, I guess," the Captain thought. "Maybe that walking catastrophe's gone away by now."

For the second time that day, he was wrong.

Ramo suddenly stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Dearest Bianca!"

The voice that the Captain dreaded the most screeched back enthusiastically, "Ramo! Caro mio, my goodness me! What a surprise!"

They came forward and made an extravagant show of embracing each other with "Mwah! Mwah!" sounds.

Just as Captain Haddock was trying to tiptoe away, Nash let go of the diva in the large mink coat and announced, "...Allow me to present to you an art lover!" and pointed at Haddock, who froze.

Castafiore gasped and exclaimed, "Captain Stopcock! You here! Oh, how wonderful...Mwah! Mwah!"

She kissed him on both cheeks noisily. Haddock, trying to breathe, replied, "Bianca! You here! What a...surprise!"

Castafiore was just too delighted. "Oh, how delightful to find you here! I cannot believe that you, of all people, are interested in the sublime Alph-Art! You, a simple fisherman..." Haddock gnashed his teeth, though Bianca clearly meant not to offend, "...Should be mad about art, how fantastic!"

She then turned to Nash and started a long speech about the virtues of art and how accessible it is to people of all classes. Haddock started feeling hungry and wished he'd never forsaken his morning coffee and bacon with eggs. He even missed seeing Snowy chasing his Siamese cat.

"...The wheel, the fire, the hardboiled egg...and it takes us back to the origins of our illustrious civilisation! It is inspired, my dear Ramo, inspired!" She stopped to look at what seemed to be a table leg made to resemble a lion's paw surmounted by a crystalline sphere. "Oh, look at that, Captain Kapok! What strength, what nobility! You feel better when you've seen that, don't you?"

"Er...Um..." Haddock was at a loss for words.

Bianca took the Captain's arm and dragged him towards another Ramo Nash creation, the 'G' and 'R' sculptures that Martine had been skulking around earlier.

"This work here, look! A microcosm of the whole universe, from Gabbana to Rasputin...Alfa...Fiat...Lancia...Omega...No, that's another make..."

"Well, er..."

Bianca then caught sight of a picture showing a huge checkered 'K' and steered the unfortunate Captain towards it, "Look at this one! It is definitely made for you, Captain! K for Kaptock!"

"My name is Haddock, Signora Bianca," replied Haddock, more than a tad annoyed.

"_Misericordia_, what am I thinking?!" Bianca exclaimed, dramatically placing both hands on her breast. She then pointed at another image, a big blue 'A' with a purple border of the entire alphabet in lowercase letters, "Then how about this one! A for Addock!"

Steam could almost be seen flowing out of Haddock's ears, "Haddock is spelt with an 'H', Signora! H!"

Nash, seeing and understanding the Captain's embarrassment at having his name pronounced wrong, came to the rescue with a clear-coloured sculpture in his arms, "In that case, I have precisely what you need...This 'H' in Perspex! Not just Alph-Art, but Personalph-Art! Which is Alph-Art that is customized just for you."

Castafiore gushed in awe, "Sublime...Marvellous...Transcendent! My dear friend, this is exactly what you need! This piece was waiting for you, so you must have it straight away!"

"Bianca is right, sir," smiled Ramo Nash hopefully, "Such a chance may never come your way again."

"Well, fine then," grunted Haddock, looking resigned to his fate.

Haddock left the gallery that morning, having spent two euros on the parcel tucked under his arm and leaving one happy artist, one equally happy Milanese Nightingale and two very thoughtful gallery keepers in his wake.

**Author's Note: I used the term "nouveau-riche" to describe Ramo Nash, because that was a term used back in the day for people who "came across" the big money. And I imagined Martine to be wearing this dress in light pink: images. trademe. co. nz/photoserver /full/ 251788114. jpg**


	4. Chapter 3

**Tintin & Alph-Art: Part 1  
**

**THE 'H' AND THE 'E'**

**Chapter 3  
**

Tintin's day was an uneventful one. After breakfast, he went out for a walk with Milou into the meadows, enjoying the calm and sunny weather. Occasionally he would hear the odd dodgy sound, such as twigs snapping or see a bush rustling, but it would turn out to be a false alarm. Snowy dug up a bone he had buried last week and enjoyed it under a tree, before heading off to the village with his master for a while.

They explored the flea market and found nothing compelling. However, Tintin wasn't really in the mood for much. Ever since the wave of nostalgia he'd experienced from digging up his beloved plus-fours, he was suddenly aware that there was a gaping hole in his mind. He felt as though there was some memory in there that felt like it wasn't. As exciting as it was to think of it, it also gave him a headache, which he interpreted as a threat from his subconscious, telling him to back off.

Two fashionable diva-like girls were walking together and they stopped to loudly admire and pet a very pleased Snowy. One of them smiled provocatively and batted her eyelashes at Tintin, who raised his eyebrows in answer. To her amazement, he shook his head, not getting the hint and walked away with Snowy behind him. The encounter had left him uncomfortable. Girls are fine enough, he thought, but I certainly wouldn't go for that type of girl even if I could! They remind me of Signora Castafiore!

He bought himself the day's issue of the _Daily Reporter _and found nothing interesting other than a statement in the gossip column remarking that Ramo Nash's art captures the very essence of luxury and materialism. There was also another one stating that the birth of magnetism could potentially usher in a New Age of spiritualism.

It was almost 7 o'clock in the evening and the duo hurried back to Marlinspike just in time to catch the news on the TV. Five minutes before them, Captain Haddock had made a brief stop at a cafe in town to drink some coffee and spent most of the afternoon exchanging harsh words with the joyriding driver of a bike which had almost mowed him down.

Nevertheless, he made it home, with his parcel in one piece. When he rang the bell, Nestor greeted his tired, gloomy employer as though nothing had happened.

"Good evening sir. I hope you had a great day."

" *sigh* That's one way of putting it, Nestor."

At that very moment, the TV showed Tintin a very familiar face. The reporter yelled for his best friend, "Captain, is that you? Get over here quick! Hurry!"

Haddock rushed into the living room and recognized that the man on the TV programme was interviewing none other than Emir Ben Kalish Ezab of Khemed! He sat down next to Tintin and watched.

The Emir was speaking in his calm, yet firm manner. "Indeed, _Monsieur_ D'Hartimont, indeed. Khemed has long been considered to be a third-world country and I, its Emir, have been doing my best to ensure that my plans for her future shall come to fruition. Now that Khemed has been ushered into a new era of peace, I have decided to travel to Europe.

I went to Germany and offered to buy Neuschwanstein Castle to be installed outside Wadesdah. But would you believe it? The German authorities refused! Even the British government brushed me off, when I proposed to buy Windsor Castle from them. It would have made a nice new home for me in the heart of the country. Everywhere I went, I was met with comprehension. Do you know what I mean?"

The clearly troubled-looking interviewer replied, "I...I see, Your Excellency. But also it had recently got out that you had developed a burgeoning interest in modern art?"

The Emir smiled, "Yes, that's right. On that subject, one of my plans to moderize Khemed do include building an art museum. For that, I have decided to go to Paris and offer a considerable sum for that refinery they recently built in Paris and then used as a museum..."

D'Hartimont, the interviewer, gasped, "You mean the Beauborg Centre, Excellency?!"

His Excellency said, "I know, that's what it is. That's the official story they gave me. But whatever anyone says, it's a refinery used as a museum and that's that! So I wanted to buy this refinery and turn it into..."

BANG! An explosive flash went off in the set.

Tintin and Haddock almost jumped out of their seats. Snowy and the Marlinspike cat, who were dozing in front of the television, leapt up with their hair raised and bolted in different directions.

"Great snakes!" Tintin exclaimed, "A terrorist attack! Let's hope...!"

The smoke cleared quickly to reveal a televised chaotic scene...with a small boy in a black burnous and orange Arab headdress laughing and pointing at his father and D'Hartimont, who were all covered in the dirty after-effects of a classic firecracker gag.

The Emir laughed, "Oh, Abdullah, my darling sugar-candy plum! Aren't you ashamed to be scaring the nice gentleman?"

D'Hartimont laughed nervously, though his expression and singed hair suggested otherwise, "No, no, think nothing of it, Excellency! Just a little banger! Now, where were we?"

"As I was saying earlier, my good man, my heart is set on building an at museum in Wadesdah. The plans for my vision of Khemed as a modern country progressing into the future are drawn up."

D'Hartimont concluded his interview with a sigh of relief, "Thank you, Your Excellency... And we stay with the world of art to report that Jacques Monastir, the great art expert, has disappeared in dramatic and tragic circumstances. The _Art and the Artistic _author left a small port in Sardinia three weeks ago on his yacht, _The Emerald.  
_

The yacht has been found empty, drifting off the Corsican coast at Ajaccio. near the Sanguinaires Islands, with a freshly cut length of rope attached to it. It seems probable that _Monsieur _Monastir decided to go for a swim and, for safety, attached himself to the boat by a line. Then disaster must have struck.

Divers had been working to retrieve his body, with little success so far. Jacques Monastir was known worldwide and most of the great museums called upon his expertise. Our condolences go to Monastir's parents, brother and fiancee, all of whom survive him."

Haddock took the remote and switched off the TV. "Speaking of art experts, I met a Monsieur Fourcart. He told he had something interesting to say to you. He'll ring you up soon..."

Tintin smiled, "_Oui_? Is that so?...Are you getting interested in art, Captain?"

"_Euh...Ouais_, I mean...I'll be right back."

He went back to the doorway where he'd left his parcel and took it to the living room. He unwrapped it in front of Tintin and put it on the coffee table.

"_Voila_!"

"Huh?" Tintin saw a large clear-coloured shape that seemed to resemble an 'H.' "Whatever's that?"

"It's Alph-Art," Haddock replied, a little over-enthusiastically, "Even Personalph-Art. H for Haddock, do you get it?"

No, Tintin did not get it. "Ah, yes...I, er..."

"And do you know, it's made and signed by Ramo Nash, the famous Jamaican artist!"

'Ramo Nash?' Tintin thought. He was sure that name was familiar.

"He's a famous Jamaican artist. You've heard of him, right?"

"The name certainly rings a bell with me, but what's it for?"

"What's it for? Well..."

"_Bonsoir, mes amis_!"

Professor Cuthbert Calculus of shark tank and moon rocket fame joined them in the room. Haddock greeted him jovially, "Hello, Cuthbert! How are you?" "Oh, it's a little chilly this time of year, but still...Hello, what is that?"

Cuthbert adjusted his glasses to take a closer look at the H.

"That, Cuthbert, is a work by Ramo Nash."

"For goodness sake, I can clearly see that it is an H! But what's it for?"

"What's it for?" Haddock thought aloud and decided, "Nothing! Nothing at all! It's a work of art. Art isn't FOR anything! Art is art!"

"A cart?!" Calculus was clearly offended. "H for cart?! Are you making fun of me, Captain? It's bad enough that you accuse me of acting the goat, but this...!"

"Cuthbert, please listen...!"

"Really, what do you take me for?!" Cuthbert huffed and stomped out of the room. "H for cart, indeed!"

Meanwhile, Snowy, who had been eyeing the H the whole time, jumped onto the coffee table and sniffed at the H curiously, "Hmmm, what's this strange object that the Captain brought home with him? Gotta take a closer look..."

"Down, boy! Down, Snowy!"

Snowy promptly jumped off and watched as Tintin lifted it gently and scrutinized it, "Well, Captain...It's, er...It looks nice. How...original."

"Isn't it?" His friend replied. He racked his brain for an excuse for why he took it. There was no way he'd be explaining that Castafiore talked him into it! "You know, er... when I saw it, I... suddenly felt like..."

DONG. "I'll get it, sir!" Nestor called.

"Good evening, everyone," Thompson and Thomson spoke in unison as they entered the room.

"Gentlemen," Tintin nodded amicably.

"Goodness gracious, where did that come from?" Thomson, the one with the flared moustache said. He had noticed the H in Tintin's arms. "It looks like an H! But what is it for?"

"To be precise," Thompson said, "What does the letter H do?"

This drove Haddock nuts. "Blue blistering barnacles, it IS an H! And it isn't FOR anything! It's Alph-Art! And art's not FOR anything at all!"

Both detectives backed off, startled. "So that's Alph-Art. Oh, good! Er...good, good, good, oh well. Anyhow, about why we're here..."

"So why are you here anyway?" Haddock asked. Thompson replied, "Perhaps you know about the Emir touring Europe?"

"Yes, we do."

"Well, we received information that he will be coming to Brussels to consider purchasing the Atomium as a part of his plans for Khemed."

"But," Thomson piped up, "We also came across some strictly classified information that makes us fear about his possible assassination at the hands of a Palestinian commando."

"_Vraiment_?" Tintin and the Captain asked, glancing at each other.

"_Oui_. So we thought," Thomson said, "That since you know him quite well, you may consider putting him and his son up here incognito?" He took a Havana box out from his coat pocket and offered Haddock one as he spoke.

"_Merci_ for the cigar," Haddock said, lighting it and puffing merrily, "_Mais, mes amis._.. *puff* I would be happy to accommodate *puff, puff* a pair of bashi-bazouks or even an entire herd of Yeti, but *puff* but have that little terror Abdullah under my roof? Never! Never again!"

The two detectives had helped themselves to Havanas as well at that point and Thomson, between puffs, explained, "Abdullah? But he's a very nice boy, well-behaved. These cigars we have here, they're from him."

"Kind, isn't he?" Thompson asked.

"You reckon?" Haddock asked. "Well, if I were you, I'd watch out, because..."

BANG! BLAM!

The Thompsons exploded in a puff of smoke. When it subsided, their faces were grimy and the cigars in their mouths were reduced to tiny burnt stumps.

Captain Haddock roared with laughter as the Thompsons scowled. "HAHAHA! What did I tell you? Oh, it's a classic old gag he plays, the little brat! He offers you a cigar and after a few seconds, it...it...Oh no..." The Captain's face turned serious. He had just realized what would happen next!

BANG!

Haddock, with a dirty face and scowl to match the detectives, bellowed, "Thundering typhoons, Abdullah, just wait till I catch you...!"

RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIING!

"What now?!" Haddock snapped as he picked up the phone.

"Hello, whoever you are, this is NOT _La Boucherie Sanzot_! And if it was, then I'd..." He calmed himself down as he heard a familiar voice speaking amicably down the other end. "Yes, sir, he's here, I'll just pass it to you."

He gestured to Tintin, who had been giggling behind his hands, watching the exchange with the detectives. Tintin immediately sobered up and took the phone.

"Hello, Tintin speaking...I see...Really, are you sure you don't want me to come over there instead?...Well in that case, I'll meet you at six o'clock tomorrow...Fine! Thank you, Monsieur Fourcart! I'll see you tomorrow then."

He put the phone down and turned to his friends. "Seems like we're really up to our necks in art! You meet Ramo Nash. You buy some Alph-Art. An art expert disappears off Ajaccio. Another one wants to meet me. Ben Kalish Ezab wants to build an art museum...Anyway, is there anything else you are investigating at the moment?"

"Well, nothing at the moment, other than the Emir," said Thompson. "But if you think that we're going to tell you that we're treating the Monastir disappearance like a murder, then you are wrong! Mum's the word, that's our motto!"

"To be precise," said Thomson, "Dumb's the word. And if you think we'll also say that Monastir was involved with Alph-Art before his death, then you're wrong!"

"Good night, gentlemen!" Both detectives said and Nestor showed them out the door. Where they promptly tripped on the cat one by one. CRASH!

"Will you be needing me again, sir?" asked Nestor politely, after shutting the door.

"Hmm...Come here Nestor," Haddock replied after some thought, "Look at this." He showed him the H. "What do you think? Please be honest."

"What is it, sir?"

"It's an H, Nestor, as you can see."

"Of course I see it sir. But what is it for sir?"

Haddock totally became furious. "Nothing, Nestor! Isn't it obvious?! It's a piece of art by Ramo Nash and it's just ART! It's not FOR anything at all!"

* * *

The next evening, at about quarter to five...

It had been an uneventful day at the Fourcart gallery. Martine had gone about her work as usual and, thanks to the success of Alph-Art, there were a lot of customers. Now it was almost five o'clock and Henri Fourcart, she had noticed, was in an unnaturally good mood. So much he'd asked them all to close up early.

"Here are the documents, _Madame_ Laijot," Martine said to the older woman. "All the sold sculptures and paintings have been categorized and all the buyers' details have been written down here."

She handed a pile of papers to the stern-looking woman, who nodded curtly. "Thank you, _Mademoiselle_ Vandezande. I'll keep them locked in this drawer in my desk here. See you tomorrow...Again."

"And it'll be always the same," she muttered under her breath as she left. "Again and again and again. There's no end to this. Oh, I can't wait to retire..."

Martine sighed. She was the only one who knew how much Mrs Laijot hated working at the gallery. She put on her coat and _cloche_ hat and walked out to see Fourcart unlocking his car.

"Good night, _Monsieur_ Fourcart. I'll see you tomorrow," she smiled at the older man.

"Good night, Martine dear," he replied with a smile. "Would you like me to give you a lift home?"

"No, thank you, sir, I have to go to the grocery store before it closes."

"Of course," he said as he got into his car. Just as Martine started walking away, Fourcart called out to her, "Martine, wait! One more thing!"

Martine turned and walked up to the car, "Yes sir?" she said.

"Please answer this question honestly, dear girl," he requested. Martine thought his smile looked rather sad. "Do you love working at our gallery?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. She replied sincerely, "Why, yes sir, I love working at the gallery. It is a large part of my life, as you and _Madame_ Fourcart have been sir. This gallery reminds me of all that you've inspired in me and helped me achieve sir. Without you, _Madame_ and this gallery, I wouldn't know where I would be now."

"I thought as much," Fourcart smiled benignly at her. "I...will see you tomorrow then, Martine."

"_Bien sur, monsieur._"

Martine stepped back as the car roared into life and drove away. She held her bag firmly to her chest and hugged it on the way home, her 'E' pendant glinting in the rays of the nearing sunset.

Meanwhile, in Marlinspike Hall, minutes before six...

Tintin settled himself comfortably in the sitting room with Snowy and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Ten to six...Fourcart should arrive soon."

He waited.

And waited. And waited. But sunset came and went and there was no sign of Henri Fourcart.

"Where is he?" Snowy barked.

"I don't know_ Milou, _but I do hope he comes."

But time still passed by and it was now quarter to seven.

"That's funny. He surely hasn't forgotten...?"

Little did they all know what would await them tomorrow...

**YES, I KNOW! LONG CHAPTER! But I do hope it's worth the wait, honest.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Tintin & Alph-Art: Part 1  
**

**THE 'H' AND THE 'E'**

**Chapter 4  
**

The phone rang.

Martine lethargically opened her eyes and groaned. It was only 1:30am. She got out of bed, wrapped a shawl around her nightgown-clad form and found the phone in her living-room. She picked it up and mumbled, "'Lo?"

"Oh, Martine!" A female voice sobbed down the other end. "_Martine!_"

Martine's wits sharpened when she recognized the voice.

"_Madame Fourcart? Est-ce que tout va bien_? Are you all right?"

"_Ah, Martine, c'est terrible! Mon Dieu, pourquoi! Pourquoi!_"

"_Madame_, what happened?"

Mrs Emilie Fourcart wept bitterly as she talked. Martine's glasses-free eyes widened and she had to lean against the wall slightly, due to the impact of _Madame's _words. When she finally put the phone down, fifteen minutes later, her head was spinning.

"_Non..._" She moaned quietly and leaned her forehead against the wall in despair. "_Non...!_"

* * *

"_Ah, merci, Milou..._I wonder what disaster today will bring us..."

Snowy had just brought the day's issue of the Daily Reporter to the table at which Tintin and Captain Haddock were breakfasting. Tintin took the newspaper and spread it to read. In spite of Fourcart being a no-show the previous evening, Tintin had taken this well and intended to go to the Fourcart Gallery to visit him after breakfast.

"_NON!_"

Tintin's face turned white as a sheet as he stood up suddenly with the newspaper.

"Ten thousand thundering typhoons!" Haddock's chair creaked as he too stood up, "What is it, lad?"

"Looks at this!" Tintin brandished the front page at him. The Captain's eyes widened, "Blistering barnacles, this is terrible!"

The article on the cover read thus:

**FOURCART DIES**

**Art world mourns again**

Yesterday, Jacques Monastir disappeared off Ajaccio, near the Sanguinaires Islands. Last evening, the renowned expert Henri Fourcart met his end in a road accident. His car skidded on a bend, plunged into a dry riverbed and burst into flames. The doomed driver was presumed to have perished in the blaze. Fourcart is survived by his widow, son and two grandchildren.  


"All very mysterious!" Tintin's blue eyes widened in realization. "He just had to die...when he had something important to tell me. An untimely death just like his colleague."

Poor man! A whole chapter of accidents lately..." Haddock sighed.

"...But, Captain, what if they weren't accidents?"

"Oh, you! Always seeing mysteries here and there!"

"Yes, you're probably right, Captain...All the same, I'm heading there very soon, I just feel as though I owe it to Fourcart to find out. If he died trying to give me a story, then I dare myself to go get it!"

* * *

The gallery was closed for the whole day. Mrs Fourcart broke down in her daughter-in-law's arms as they surveyed the wreck. Her son, Claude, looked on grimly. Afterwards, a hasty memorial service was held at the Fourcart residence, which was attended by the Fourcart family, a few close art friends of Henri's and Martine.

Mrs Fourcart, however, decided that Martine must help her carry on overseeing the daily functions of the gallery. A shocked Martine tried to protest, but the older woman insisted that she must help her preserve her late husband's ardent love of art.

"It's all that is left of him for me now. Martine, I insist you and Mrs Laijot must return to work tomorrow and carry on with the Ramo Nash Exhibition, please."

Martine knew better than to argue with her. Emilie Fourcart (_nee_ Toussaint) may have been grief-stricken, but like her husband, she was stubborn and hated to leave a job unfinished. So, the next morning, after another service, this time at church, Martine headed off to work in her mourning clothes. Just as she walked up to the gallery, she saw a young man with hair that stuck up trying to open the door. There was a scooter parked near him, with a basket containing a cute white dog.

On that very morning, Tintin rode off on his scooter to the gallery, with Snowy sitting in the scooter basket. He found it soon and parked it in front of the gallery.

"Now you wait in here for me, _Milou mon ami_. I'll be back soon." Snowy yapped in reply.

Tintin tried to open the door of the gallery. It didn't budge. "Hmmm...Maybe they're not opened today either?"

"_Excusez-moi_," said a soft voice behind him.

Tintin turned and stepped aside. He found himself looking at a willowy figure clad in black. It was a woman who was a head shorter than he was. She wore a black fascinator with a thick matching veil that would have looked better on someone's grandmother. The veil covered most of her face and head, making Tintin unable to determine her age.

She took a key out of her bag and unlocked the door. Tintin followed her inside and watched as she turned on the lights and unlocked a door on the other side of the room. She finally went up to a large working desk and deposited her bag on it. The woman turned around to face Tintin, as she took off her hat and the reporter's eyebrows shot up high.

He had known she was a woman, but he hadn't counted on her youth. She looked almost his age, maybe younger. Light auburn hair fell gracefully out of the hat to rest above her elbows. Piercing green eyes looked at him behind rather big square spectacles with thin black frames that brought out the contours of her delicate, heart-shaped face. Her skin was pale, but her black outfit and pensive demeanour made her look paler. She wore a black sweater with long sleeves and a cowl neck that barely exposed her collarbones, paired with matching pencil skirt, stockings and ballet flats. She wore light red lipstick and no jewellery other than a shiny gold pendant shaped like a mutant alphabetic letter on a black velvet cord.

She did her best to smile politely at him. "_Bonjour, monsieur_, how may I help you today?" Her endearing smile brought a lump to Tintin's throat, for some reason.

"Er...I, you see..." Tintin struggled for a good way to open the subject. He cut to the chase.

"Well, my name is Tintin and I'm a journalist. _Monsieur _Fourcart telephoned me two days ago to give me information for what he said would be a sensational article. He made an appointment with me and, just before his visit, he had his accident."

The girl lowered her eyes and sighed, "Alas, yes, _monsieur_. I had just come back from the memorial service. His wife insisted I keep the Gallery open..."

"I see," Tintin nodded his understanding. "But I was wondering, perhaps if you knew what he wanted to tell me?"

"I'm not sure he mentioned you at all, sir, let me see..." The girl led him into what seemed to be Fourcart's office. She found a diary and perused its contents. "This is his memorandum, sir. All it mentions for two days ago is that he wanted the gallery closed early, because he had an important meeting. It doesn't mention who, where or why." She showed it to Tintin, who saw that she was correct.

"Right," Tintin replied as they left the office, "But do you know if he indicated in any way if the meeting he was to go to was of an urgent nature? How did he behave in the past few days?"

"Well, er...he behaved the same as usual. There were a few occasions when I could hear him arguing loudly with Ramo Nash..."

"Yes?"

"But he was a nice boss really. Gave out wages on time, always informed of any changes. Hmmm, come to think of it, about three days ago, I must have heard your name come up in a discussion with another customer..."

Tintin instantly remembered Captain Haddock and nodded. "Go on."

"Actually, on the day he had the accident, he was in a cheerful mood. Very optimistic...That's all I know sir. But why do you want to know?"

"You see," Tintin explained after looking around cautiously, "It's all about the timing of these accidental deaths. Two art experts, knocked off one after the other. Their bodies are nowhere to be seen. And I even began to wonder if they really were accidents."

The woman gasped. "What? Are you saying..."

"Exactly."

Unknown to the two of them, in a flat close by, two men were listening in on the conversation through a radio-like machine.

"But why? Who would want to do that to him? _Monsieur_ Fourcart is the nicest man in the world. He had no enemy and his family...Oh, they miss him terribly..." Her lower lip trembled slightly.

"Of course," Tintin replied, "But how careful was he as a driver?...Forgive me, but did he have a glass or two occasionally?"

The assistant looked outraged, "_Jamais_! He only drank water. As far as I'm concerned, he was almost always careful."

"And the car?"

"I just don't know," the girl pouted, "Why don't you ask his garage? _M__onsieu__r_ Fourcart went to them four days ago for something or the other..."

"Do you have the address?"

"Hmmm, I think I do." she replied, tucking a stray strand behind her ear as she took out a phone book in the drawer of her desk. After some flipping, she found the address and wrote it down on a paper. "Here's the address, sir. The name is Fleurotte. It's close to where _M__onsieu__r_ Fourcart had his country house."

Tintin took it with a smile, noting how small the woman's hand was. "_Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle_...Er..."

"Vandezande," she replied, then added with a little smile, "Martine Vandezande."

"Nice to meet you, _M__lle_ Vandezande," Tintin smiled politely and left.

When she heard the engine of the scooter starting up, Martine sank back wearily in her chair. "If he really was murdered, _Monsi__eur_ Tintin, then I can only guess at who it was" she told herself.

Thirty kilometers later, Tintin and Snowy arrived at the Garage de l'Avenir, where they met a plump middle-aged mechanic.

"_Monsi__eur_ Fleurotte?"

"_Oui, c'est moi."_

_"Bonjour, _I am a journalist and I'm making some enquiries about the accident that killed _Monsi__eur_ Fourcart."

"Ah, yes, what a tragedy. But I've already told the police all I know. _Monsi__eur_ Fourcart is one of my oldest customers. Only a few days ago, he brought his car in for a simple seal replacement job to stop an oil leak."

"So was the car in good shape apart from that?" Tintin took out the notebook and pen he had used to write down all that _Mademoiselle _Vandezande had told him and jotted down everything.

"Perfect condition. Almost new, less than 32000 kmph. But I believe _Monsi__eur_ Fourcart may have taken ill when he had the accident. He knew the road well, having a house close by and all."

"So did the accident happen when he was leaving his house or coming home from work?"

"The police say he had come back home from work and then was leaving home, when it happened."

"Could tell me whereabouts it happened?"

"I'll show it to you on this map," Fleurotte said, taking a map from the pocket of his overalls and spreading it, "Just three kilometres from here, between Leignault and Marmont. The parapet is smashed and the wreck of the car is still on the bed of the river Douillette."

"_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur _Fleurotte."

"My pleasure."

"C'mon Snowy."

As Tintin drove off on his scooter, he was unaware of the large black Mercedes Benz that had been following him ever since he left the gallery. The driver drove stealthily at a considerable distance, while the mean-looking thug in the passenger's seat held a sub-machine-gun.

They came across some traffic, where there were policemen watching over and missed the scooter for a few minutes. They finally managed to catch sight of Tintin, but just as the thug in the passenger's seat held his armed hand out of the open shutter to fire, a front tyre blew out with a BANG! Tintin looked around and the thug had to put away the machine-gun. The driver swore, "Blast! Just as I was about to hit him!" They stopped to change tyres.

Tintin arrived at the site of the crash and parked at the safer opposite end. He crossed the road and looked down from the part of the parapet that wasn't broken. "Let's see...Crumbs, what a drop!" It was a very deep ravine and the burnt-out beige wreck that was once a car was still partially visible. He then looked for signs of traffic and got onto the road to check it.

"No signs of skid marks...The parapet really has taken a beating though..."

Snowy followed suit and sniffed. He caught a whiff and found a road that was partially hidden by bush. He barked happily, "Tintin! Come and see this!"

"Good boy! A hidden road!" Tintin exclaimed and found what he was looking for, "Skid marks. It looks just as I suspected. A car cut in front of another to make it stop...And there! A pool of oil." He came out of the bush and stood near the broken parapet, thinking aloud.

"Fleurotte had said that there was a small oil leak that had just been repaired...What if the other car was powerful enough to bump it so fast that the repair work just had to come undone? So the other car comes out of the hidden road and forces Fourcart to stop...Then it was definitely a murder, not an accident. And the Thompsons must be right about Monastir! That was a murder too! But what kind of car could deliver such a powerful impact...?"

He walked and stood in the middle of the road in deep thought, just as the Mercedes approached him at full speed, the driver aiming to hit and the passenger ready to shoot if missed.

"There he is!" The thug with the gun said through gritted teeth. "And this time don't miss!"

Snowy yipped in fright as he ran away to the side. The car went in for the kill, but another car came in from behind Tintin and tooted, causing Tintin to jump and run.

"Look out! A car!" The gunner yelled.

"He must be crazy!" The driver of the civilian car exclaimed.

"Missed! Stop here and reverse back! I'll try to shoot him!" said the gunner.

The driver did as he was told, while the gunner put up the shutter slightly and aimed unseen to Tintin who was watching the car manoeuvre itself.

"How could they reverse in a place like that, Snowy? Look out!" But Snowy wasn't listening. He had noticed the barrel of the gun poking out from the shutter and was growling.

WHAM! A van coming from behind the Mercedes rammed into the latter, almost making the gunner shoot off a round of bullets into the sky.

"Missed!" The driver slammed his fist on the wheel furiously. "We've botched it!"

It swerved and disappeared in a cloud of dust, watched by Tintin, Snowy and the van driver, who had got off to stand beside Tintin.

"What kind of crazy driver is that?" the van driver asked incredulously, "Driving at full throttle in a crash site...Hello, what's this?" He noticed a pointy black object near the parapet.

Tintin recognized it. "Stop, don't touch that! It's a machine gun!" He took out his handkerchief and picked the gun up with it. "There could be fingerprints on it! And it must be still loaded. I better take this to the police. But first I must go after them."

The driver of the van snorted, "In the state they're in, they won't get far."

Both drivers drove in separate directions, Tintin to Marmont and the van driver to Leignault. The gun, wrapped in handkerchief, was sitting in the basket next to a very cautious Snowy.

Tintin frowned in thought as he drove. "There's no mistake. They were trying to kill me, the gun proves that. And whoever they are, they killed Fourcart too...But how did they know they'd find me here? Only Fleurotte, the garage-man...and the _Mademoiselle_ at the gallery, she must have tipped them off somehow...Stop! There's their car!"

Tintin spotted the Mercedes, which had pulled up at a petrol station. He and Snowy got off the bike and hid behind a damaged Ford.

"I must keep my eyes open. They'll stop at nothing to get me..."

TAKATAKATAKATAKA!

Tintin threw himself on the ground instantly, with Snowy almost pinioned under his weight. But it was only a souped-up motorcycle trying to start up. A mechanic was staring at Tintin with his mouth wide open.

"Er...hahaha," Tintin laughed sheepishly as he got himself and Snowy up. "I really thought someone was shooting at us!"

"We did look really silly doing all that!" Snowy barked.

Tintin heard raised voices close by and saw a mechanic arguing with a portly gentleman in a brown suit. He went up to them.

"I turn my back for a minute and then it's gone! What kind of service does this station...!" "We have called the police, sir, we know what they look like, they..." "They better, damn it! For my own car to be stolen like this...!"

"Excuse me, but d'you know where the people from that Mercedes have gone?"

"That's what we'd like to know ourselves!" the mechanic replied furiously. "They arrived and stole the car belonging to this gentleman here, while he was filling up. We're waiting for the police...Are you looking for them too?"

"My car! Oh, my beautiful car!" wailed the gentleman.

"Looking for them? Oh, I'll say so! They tried to kill me!" Tintin exclaimed. Sirens were wailing as the police cars arrived. "Ah, here's the police!"

Half an hour of evidence and statement collecting later, Tintin hopped onto the scooter and headed back home.

"You better look out from behind, Snowy. If you see anything unusual, bark."

"You got it, Tintin!" Snowy replied. "I'm taking no chances!"

"It won't be easy explaining this to the Captain," Tintin added.

Sure enough, when they got back to Marlinspike Hall...

"Blistering barnacles, Tintin! What you're saying can't be true! It's like a cheap thriller!"

"But it is true all the same. It is fact and I was both victim and witness. And one thing seems fairly obvious to me: It must have been Fourcart's assistant who tipped off the gangsters."

Haddock remembered the young girl he had encountered two days ago at the gallery and exclaimed, "But how could you accuse her without any proof? I met her myself that other day, she seems honest and unassuming and would never hurt a fly!"

"She was the only one who knew I was going to see Fleurotte at the garage. That is proof enough. Tomorrow, I'll be paying a visit to that young lady..."

"Then I'll go with you, Tintin. You never know."

* * *

Meanwhile, somewhere in Brussels, a telephone conversation from overseas was being carried out in Italian.

"_Ciao, Yoyo! Sono_ Bettha!"

"_Bettha, mia sorella_! How are you?"

"Same as usual. Cos is just back home from his job at the Chianti winery. And you?"

"Oh, life goes on. I met a man today. Very interested in the same things as us."

"Is he handsome, Yoyo?"

Laughter. "Oh _si_, I think so!" Then the voice that was in Brussels turned serious. "Look, I went as advised the other day. Akass requested a private audience with me. For a moment, I thought he recognized me, but turns out he had audiences with others as well."

"Any specific occupation?"

"I've seen three of them before. All gallery assistants. Naturally, they all left with an 'E' pendant each. So, have you confirmed the situation with Monastir?"

"Yes, Yoyo. You were right, Akass had had a few sold-out shows in Sardinia, where Monastir and his fiancee-assistant were vacationing. And at about the same time, Ramo Nash had an Alph-Art exhibition there. That's when Monastir met Akass. We still don't know how Akass' bunch of _idiotas_ managed to find out about Monastir's yachting location before they killed him though."

"I don't have an answer for that either. But I'll come up with a theory as soon as I get enough time, Bettha. _Grazie mille_. Say _ciao_ to Cos for me."

"_Grazie, cara mia. Buona notte_."

The line went dead.

**AND YAY! Another chapter done! And I almost forgot: Have you noticed what the G and R sculptures in Chapter 2 represent? Review if you do! If you don't, please review anyway!**


End file.
